


Querencia

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 16:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5936059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bull and a matador.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Querencia

**Author's Note:**

> I... have no excuse for this. Thanks in advance to the ten people who will read this lol. 
> 
> Heavily inspired by this titillating work. https://archiveofourown.org/works/20108
> 
> Edited 2/8, didn't like the original ending.

You're sitting in a dim hotel bar next to the lobby in Manchester, New Hampshire. One of countless many hotel bars you've passed through over the last year. Your laptop sits, ignored, on the table in front of you. Your eyes are locked on the TV screen hanging above the bar, empty save for the lone bartender. It's Saturday night and everyone else is out, and you are watching the debate, alone, and you are grateful for the quiet. Rubio is spewing out one of his pre-packaged responses that in no way answers the moderator's question but it does once again do the job of reminding everyone that, in no uncertain terms, your election would bring upon this country nothing but ruin and devastation. The crowd claps loudly and some shout out affirmations. You roll your eyes and take another drink. 

Now it's Christie's turn. He basically says the same thing as Rubio but the crowd cheers a little less. Hasn't been a good night for him, save for the few successful attacks he's made on Rubio. The bully as always. To be frank though, it hasn't been a good night for most of the Republican candidates. Trump is back on stage, after all. Poor Jeb is whipped, Carson looks surprised every time he's asked a question, and Cruz is clearly upset that his victory in Iowa is being overshadowed by Rubio's quick ascension. You consider leaving, calling it an early night and going back up to your empty suite. You'd requested an evening off and your staff had obliged, leaving you alone. You should be taking this chance to recuperate, instead you're punishing yourself by watching what is essentially a contest of "who hates you most." It's enough to make you take another drink, but not enough for you to call it quits. You've heard all these insults before, after all. And maybe, just maybe, one of those men on stage will say something worth taking note of. 

You really really doubt it though. 

Regardless, watching the mud-slinging shitstorm that is the Republican primary keeps your mind off of your own, for just a little while. New Hampshire is a lost cause and you know it. You'll stay til the bitter end, because you sure as hell aren't a quitter, but you won't pretend that losing this state won't be an incredible disappointment. You're trying as hard you can to run a good campaign, and you're doing all you can to be heard, but much of what you try to say gets lost in translation or ignored in favor of bringing up Benghazi or your emails, as you're questioned over your status as a true progressive and as every step forward is overshadowed by another impossible promise made by Bernie. 

You have an endless amount of respect for the man, but damn him if he isn't making this an incredibly challenging and frustrating race for you. 

No matter, you tell yourself. There will be more delegates to be won, in other locales. You just need to get through this caucus.

You rest your chin in your palm, nursing the glass in your hand, eyes gazing at the TV, unwatching. Trump is taking his speaking opportunity to lay some more abuse on his opponents instead of actually sharing what is certainly a brilliant foreign policy strategy, you have no doubt. You're two seconds from giving this up and leaving, but then you're aware that you aren't alone in the bar anymore. You turn your gaze to the corridor leading from here to the lobby proper and see a figure backlit by the brighter light behind them. You can't help but smirk at yourself when you realize who it is. 

Carly Fiorina does not share in your amusement. Her eyes flicker between you and the screen, and you watch the corner of her mouth twitch. Maybe this wasn't a good night for any of the men on stage, but it had been a terrible night for Carly Fiorina. Even you think that perhaps excluding her had been a low blow, considering that she had indeed outperformed two of those men in Iowa and was currently beating Christie and Carson in New Hampshire. Not that 2% nationally was anything to brag about, but you saw no reason to leave her off the stage, even though ABC clearly did. 

Regardless, you can't help the way your mouth twists at her expression. Seeing you here, in this place, watching this debate, it almost seems enough to crack at her seemingly ironclad self-control. She surprises you though when, after only a moment's pause, her features slide into a passive expression and she makes her way over to you. You watch, trying to keep a look of boredom in your gaze, not moving your hand from under your chin as she approaches. What she says though, when she finally stands before you, is not what you'd expected. 

"Mind if I sit?"

You only take one moment of surprise, careful not to let your eyebrows lift too much, save for a gentle, uncontrollable quirk as you register what she said. You don't say anything initially. You simply offer what you think is a polite smile and gesture at the seat across from you. "Not at all."

She sits. You watch her eyes. They're dark and narrowed. Sharklike. Calculating. They hold perhaps some modicum of contempt but you also see curiosity. You'd never spoken personally to Carly Fiorina before, you realize. After the meteoric rise of Palin you'd developed the shameful habit of comparing all current and wannabe female politicians to her. Partially because Palin herself was a wannabe politician, and partially because she was everything you feared in a Republican party candidate: she was ignorant, she was short-sighted, she was prone to vitriolic sensationalism and worst of all she had been embraced for her simpleness of mind, even loved for it, because there had been some demographic of American woman that had seen themselves in her. With that said, you had of course compared Carly Fiorina to Palin, and you knew, very early on, that you had been wrong to do so. Perhaps this woman, like many in her party, was prone to the same faults in speech and idea, but you can tell by her eyes that she is no Sarah Palin. 

She sits easily in your presence, incredibly confident given that not two days ago she'd blamed her exclusion from the debate on some half-baked theory that George Stephanopoulos had "rigged the game" because of his long-time support to you. It was the sort of thing a candidate might say to rile up their supporters enough to get them to cry out about conspiracies and similar nonsense so that they don't look desperate or crazy enough to have to say it themselves. A common enough strategy on that side of the aisle. You can't help but be a little disappointed, because even though you agree with absolutely nothing she says you had hoped, after watching the way she'd schooled Trump during one of last year's debates, that she was better than that. 

In spite of her exclusion, you note that she doesn't look nearly as forlorn or downtrodden as most people in her position would be. She's watching the TV, her face a mask, her posture relaxed in her chair as if she were at home, even in spite of her proximity to the woman she calls her enemy, even with the humiliation of having polled so low that she couldn't be on stage tonight. You watch her curiously, the scotch loosening you up enough that you don't feel nearly as strange in this position as you would have without it. She is not a beautiful woman, you think, her features too unforgiving, too stern, but there is an elegance in her self-assuredness that you can't help but notice. She's wearing the same outfit she'd worn at one of the last debates, some maroon ensemble. With the wide collar and flamboyant detailing she'd looked like a comic book villain when she'd worn it on stage, but here, in this lighting, it worked for her. Far better than the outfits she'd worn previously that made her look like she'd raided Nancy Reagan's closet. 

"I'll bet you're happy about this," she finally says, looking at you. You raise a brow. "Happy about what?"

"That I'm not up there. One less person for the great Hillary Clinton to have to concern herself with."

There's something funny in her voice that you can't pinpoint. You laugh at her, openly, when she says that though. Briefly, you wonder if it is worth maintaining a facade of courtesy, but this has been a long night, and an even longer year. 

"I can't say I ever really considered you a threat," you say, no malice in your tone even though it is the absolute truth. You can tell that she knows you're being honest, and her expression does not change, but you watch something flash across her eyes and you smirk, sliding the other glass across the table at her and pouring her a drink. She takes it and swallows the scotch easily. "Any other year, and I think you'd be saying something different."

"You think so."

"Yes, I do," she says, the faintest hint of anger in her voice. "If it weren't for that carnival clown Trump. If it weren't for that jackass Carson."

You're almost inclined to believe her. There had been an over-saturation of outsiders this election season, and Trump and Carson both had the jump on her when it came to initial exposure and the ability to be recognized. You have no doubt that of those three she is likely the most intelligent, and even though her actual policy was incredibly weak she'd been the only one of the three to put policy forward. Nonetheless, even factoring out Trump and Carson, you aren't positive that she would have been a viable threat. 

You don't say this though. You just pour her and yourself another drink when she holds her glass out. You can tell by her immediate reaction that she's been stewing about this all evening. "What about you?" she drawls, watching the amber liquid fall then quickly shifting her gaze to yours. "You're getting beaten by an old pinko who openly calls himself a socialist. Who would've thought?"

You pause, resisting your knee-jerk reaction to say or do something incredibly unbecoming, and instead lean back in your seat, sliding your eyes to meet hers. You smile coldly. She's unfazed by what you know is a withering expression. Have to give it to her, she's got more guts than you ever would have given her credit for. "You seem frustrated, Mrs. Fiorina," you say, taking a long drink. "Must be hard, cycling from failure to failure to failure the way you do."

You know it's a trite insult, bringing up her time at HP, her failed senate run, her floundering campaign, but she'd had the nerve to bring up your husband and his infidelities in public, the nerve to imply that you belonged in prison for the goddamn email fiasco, the nerve to attack you personally when all other candidates had at least stuck to insulting your record. So no, you don't feel incredibly remorseful when genuine anger sweeps across her face, but you do feel surprise when she smiles, the expression as cold as your own. "Such hateful rhetoric from such a faultless woman," she says sardonically, a little flushed, a little buzzed. She takes another drink. "You know, I really did want the chance to debate you. I think I could have gotten the better of you up there. I bet Bernie has made you soft."

Funny that she would critique the Democrat's relatively courteous and respectful debates considering how dirty and silly the GOP's insult-trading had been, you think. But now you realize what she had been hoping to accomplish with all her attacks, all her needling. What Carly Fiorina had wanted, more than anything, was to be your rival, your opponent. To spar with someone that maybe she hated, but also, on some level, had an unwilling respect for. Why else would she have tried so hard to achieve your notice? 

You're both entirely ignoring the debate now. You stare at her, boundlessly amused, warm from your drink and merrier than you've been in ages. It feels good to win. It always does, and better yet you've beaten her without even trying, simply by never taking her seriously. "Sounds like you didn't want to be president at all. Seems more like you just wanted to take me down a notch," you say, still smiling. Her lips twist. "You were basically coronated as the nominee before this election even started," she says bitterly, not looking away from you. "Unopposed. Unquestioned. Unchallenged. Like a bull in a herd of cattle. The way I see it, every bull needs a matador."

You laugh again, your eyes holding no small amount of delight. The balls on this woman. "You think you're my matador?"

Carly smiles, her own eyes so dark you can't see any color in them. “In bullfighting there is a term called querencia," she says, leaning towards you. "The querencia is the spot in the ring to which the bull returns. Each bull has a different querencia, but as the bullfight continues, and the animal becomes more threatened, it returns more and more often to his spot. As he returns to his querencia, he becomes more predictable. And so, in the end, the matador is able to kill the bull because instead of trying something new, the bull returns to what is familiar. His comfort zone.”

She's very close. You watch her expression shift as she stares at you, something else there behind the contempt, something surprising. Then she leans back and shrugs. "Like I said, I think I could have gotten the better of you. I think I could have figured out your querencia."

You realize neither of you are drunk but the scotch has added an edge that wasn't there before. You watch her long hand wrap around her glass, the painted red nails, the angle of her narrow form leaned up against the table.

"I think you have it backwards," you tell her, your voice low. "I think every matador needs a bull. Have you read Death in the Afternoon?" you ask. She nods her head. You smile. "Then you know that Hemingway disagrees with you. What he says is that in his querencia, in this place, the bull knows his back is against the wall, and in this place he is inestimably more dangerous, more unpredictable, and much harder to kill."

She immediately returns your smile. It is predatory and there is no warmth there save a fiery kind of challenge in her eyes. You decide, then and there, that ultimately there is only one way to know who is right.

"Fourteenth floor, Fitzgerald Suite," you hear yourself say, that room as close to a querencia as you'll get here. You stand up, the drink doing nothing to disadvantage your balance or assuredness as you turn away from her and walk towards the elevators, seeing no change in her expression as she watches you walk away from her.

In the elevator you lean back against the metal wall. You'd seen that look in people's eyes before. The question here, perhaps, was how long would you be kept waiting. A good matador, like a good politician, isn't hasty with their attacks.

But your wait is shorter than you'd anticipated, because as the doors slide shut a long hand shoots through the narrowing gap and the doors pause for a moment, almost like a sigh, before opening once more for the late intruder who grasps your jacket lapels and pulls herself close, who spars with teeth and sharp red nails. You smirk against her mouth, grateful for her impatience, because even though she's a terrible politician she's far from a bad kisser. 


End file.
